


Some Other Town

by iamsiriuslyriddikulus



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Bartender Bucky Barnes, Gunslinger Steve Rogers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, Public Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Wild West AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28241535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamsiriuslyriddikulus/pseuds/iamsiriuslyriddikulus
Summary: The infamous gunslinger Steve Rogers doesn’t usually stay in the same town long enough to put down roots.Not until now that is, and might just have something to do with a bartender named Bucky Barnes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 133





	Some Other Town

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to [Ash](https://sirdorkalot.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this fic, letting me babble about all my ideas for this verse, and always helping me out with the historical details.

Steve tries his best to step into the saloon unnoticed. He’s just about to the bar and certain that he’s made it when someone shouts, just above the sea of voices, “That’s Steve Rogers.”

For a moment, the world stills. People’s gazes hover over him before dropping to their respective tables, quickly averted. Steve frowns and slides down into a stool, his back facing the wall, positioned towards the door. He glances around, memorizing the layout of the room. It’s precautionary, but he’s learned the hard way not to let others get the upper hand just by knowing how to navigate the space better.

His attention moves to the bartender, and he takes him in—brown-haired, well-built, his every step precise. Something about him is unsettling, and it’s enough to make Steve shift in his seat.

“Howdy.” The bartender stops in front of him and looks him up and down, sizing him up before smiling, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “What can I getcha?”

“Pony of whiskey,” Steve says. He pulls his hat off and sets it down on the bar next to him.

“That’s it?Someone like ya walks into my joint, and I’m to expect ya’ll have no more than a pony of whiskey?” The bartender grins, eyes sharp and playful. Before Steve can respond, however, he grabs a bottle and a glass. The bottle hits the bar with a heavy clink, and the man grabs a rag and starts cleaning the glass.

The sound of a chair scraping the floor from across the room distracts Steve momentarily. Two men, both drunk to the point of teetering, glance away as soon as Steve meets their gaze, and he braces himself for any sudden movement.

“Don’t mind them. Dumb as a pile of rocks,” the bartender says, and Steve glances back over at him. “They won’t hurtchya.”

“How do you know?” Steve asks.

“We just don’t get many gunslingers ‘round these parts. Besides, they’re liquored up enough that they wouldn’t make much of a shot.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m a gunslinger.”

The man’s eyes drop from the holster on Steve’s chest to the one on his hip. “What does the word matter? I’m no expert, but with a reputation like yers, I’m not sure what else to call you.”

He can tell that the bartender means no ill will, yet he can’t help the flicker of frustration at the oversimplification. “It’s about executing justice. Deadwood isn’t the only place where people’s actions frequently go against the spirit of the law. Besides, I got a strict code I follow.”

“No need to get fuckin’ sanctimonious. Shit.” The bartender pours them both drinks and slides the bottle until it’s to the side, by Steve’s hat, no longer obstructing their line of sight. “Welcome to town, Steve Rogers.” With that, he raises his glass and downs his drink.

Only then does Steve notice that the man has poured him more than he asked for. He smiles and lifts his own. “It’s hardly fair that you know my name, and I’ve yet to learn yours.”

“James, but my friends call me Bucky.”

“Which should I use?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet.”

\- - -

Steve only means to stay in town for a few nights—long enough to rest—but somehow a week passes, and he finds himself dragging his feet.

Even though he keeps a distance, Bucky warms up to him quickly and fills him in on the details of the saloon. His partner, a red-headed woman named Natasha, runs the brothel side of things. She spends the majority of her time in her office upstairs, but on the third night, Steve meets her.

Her eyes are calculating, and when she first grins at Steve, he feels as if she’s baring her teeth. “You try anything with any one of my girls, and we'll see who's a faster shot. I’ve made that promise to at least two dozen men, and—well—as you can see, I’m here, and those sons of bitches are resting somewhere in wooden boxes."

He meets her eyes as he answers. “I’d much rather help you keep your promise than lay a hand on them myself.”

Although she looks appeased, Natasha raises her eyebrows in amusement. “You mistook me for someone who needs your help. Fancy yourself a savior, Rogers?"

“Never said I did.”

“Then we’ll get along fuckin’ fine. I teach my girls how to handle a knife and a pistol, so we don’t need any saviors around here.” With that, she walks away and back up the stairs.

Bucky chuckles as he pours Steve a drink. “Ya’ll warm up to her.” He realizes his words, and for a moment, Bucky’s eyes widen—a small crack in his image. But before Steve can understand what it means, it’s gone, and his expression turns oddly neutral. “If ya stay, of course.”

“We’ll see,” Steve says, and he tries to make sense of the way his stomach clenches.

\- - -

A week turns into two, and two turn into a month. With winter coming soon, Steve decides to settle down. There’s no need risking an early storm just to make it to the next town over. When he pays November in full before the first, however, he’s certain that the smile on Bucky’s face is warmer than it’s been before.

They spend the last warm days of autumn before the snowfall exploring the land around town on their horses.

“What’s that?” Steve asks, pointing toward a house in the distance.

“Barton and Wilson—ranchers around these parts. They come into town every now and again. I reckon ya’ve seen ‘em.” With that, he nudges his horse and clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Bucky’s horse turns around. “We should be headin’ back to camp. If I’m not back soon, Nat’ll make a fuss.”

Steve hesitates. He’s spent so long traveling that he’s forgotten to notice the world around him. But here—grass far as the eye can see, alive in the wind—it hits him. He stares, transfixed, and wonders if he’s ever seen anything so beautiful.

“Ya comin’?”

Steve startles and turns, and the breath knocks out of him. Bucky is red, illuminated by the setting sun. In the breeze, his hair billows about him, and for a moment, he looks like something out of the adventure books he read as a kid.

“Steve?”

The tone of concern is enough to jar him out of his trance. Steve swallows, and the knot in his throat goes down with it. “Coming,” he says and makes a move to follow. They ride back in silence, the cold of the coming night settling over them and seeping through their coats.

They dismount outside of the stable, and Bucky hands his horse over to the stable hand. “I’ll be another minute,” he says, and Bucky nods and walks off.

Steve walks his horse into the stables himself. “I take it that you’re staying the winter,” the stable hand says as he fills the horses’ pails with feed.

“There’s not much point in leaving town now, is there?” Outside of the barn, the wind howls. “Besides, it seems winter’s already making an appearance.” He guides his horse into his stall and closes the latch to the gate behind him. No sooner has he stepped back than does he fetch his silver cigarette case from his pocket and light one.

He stands in the stable, sheltered from the whistling wind, and wraps one arm around himself. A feeling he can’t quite place—almost like a tickle—nags at him. Despite his best efforts, it evades him, elusive, and Steve frowns, breathing in and watching the tip burn orange. He lets out the smoke curl out slowly between his lips.

He waits until the cigarette burns to the filter and he tastes ash before stubbing it out under the heel of his foot. With that, he steps back out. The cold punches him in the gut, and he hunches his shoulders forward and braces himself as he walks over to the saloon.

He’s hardly stepped in when he notices an unfamiliar man at the bar. The wide-rimmed, black hat on the bar is sleek and, much like the coat, shows scarcely any signs of wear from the weather. In front of him, Bucky pours a drink.

He can feel himself cross the room—his movements jerky and agitated. When he pulls back the stool, it scrapes loud against the floor, but he doesn’t sit down. The man who looks back at him has sharp, black facial hair and a pointed face. His eyes run once over Steve, and his lips curl up, bemused. “I presume you’re the gunslinger folks been mentioning.”

Steve glances to Bucky, whose careful smile tenses into something more tight-lipped once the stranger’s eyes are no longer on him. He runs a dirty rag over a glass as he nods his head over to two men, crooning by the piano. “Drunk bastards over there,” he says, as if to explain that he had no part in revealing Steve’s identity to the stranger.

“You needn't concern yourself with me. I’m only staying a night or two before heading further West,” the man says and lifts both hands up, palms facing forward.

“Setting out for gold country,” Bucky supplies. Despite his neutral tone, the slight downturn of his lips reveals his scorn, and Steve bites back a chuckle.

“Tony Stark,” the man says, stretching out a hand, and Steve raises his eyebrows, caught off-guard. “I take it you’ve heard of my family.”

“I hail not too far from New York myself.”

“Brooklyn, if I’m not mistaken,” Tony says, and Steve shifts in his seat, readying himself to retrieve his gun from his holster if necessary.

“You’re not mistaken,” Steve says. Behind Tony, Bucky regards him curiously. “Been told my accent’s long gone, though.”

“Then I should admit I wasn’t guessing.” Steve’s hand drops to his side, and Tony quickly continues. “I was traveling by train with my partner when I heard word that Steve Rogers, the famous Brooklyn gunslinger, had made his way around these parts. It isn’t just curiosity that brings me here.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

Steve sits down and motions at Bucky to pour him a drink. “Thanks, Buck.” When Tony says nothing else, Steve asks, “Well, are you going to tell me the reason for your visit, or should I guess?”

“I hoped it might be obvious.”

With that, Steve looks at Bucky again. “Got a clue?” he asks, amused by the agitated frown on Tony’s lips.

“None,” Bucky says, slipping easily into the role as he hands Steve his drink and leans forward, forearm resting against the bar. “What do you make of it?”

“Now, I’m guessing it’s a business proposition he’s after.” With that Steve turns back to face the stranger. “What can I do you for, Mr. Stark?”

“Tony. I don’t care for formalities when— Well, regardless. I’d like to hire you. I’m headed up to Deadwood first, and I’d feel better with a man to keep watch, and, you see, I’ve heard you’re willing to do...” Tony sucks in a breath and hesitates, “... _certain_ jobs with the right pay.” With that, he sets a wad of cash between them.

Heat flares up in him, and Steve clenches his jaw. “Then you heard wrong.”

“If money’s the issue, I assure you I’m open to negotiations, including partnership.”

“It’s not.” Steve keeps his tone steady and downs his drink.

“I’d been told in Bandera you—”

“I’m aware of my business. Circumstances were different, and I didn’t do it for pay.”

“Sure you can’t be ‘suaded?”

“I’m certain.”

“Well, then. I see. I’d hoped we might come to a mutual understanding considering we share a place of origin, but I respect a man who sticks to his morals.” Tony tips his hat toward Steve and pays for his drink before standing. “You have my profound thanks for your discretion.”

“Naturally.”

With that, Tony walks away, pulling his coat around him with a flourish. The doors to the saloon swing shut behind him, and Steve lets out a breath.

“What happened in Bandera, if ya don’t mind me askin’?” Bucky’s voice jars his attention away from the door, and he turns himself front-facing once more.

“The sheriff and his deputy didn’t have much mind for the law, and a few people got hurt on account of it.”

“And did’ya help them see the error o’ their way?”

“Don’t think there’s much to see six feet under.”

Though he raises an eyebrow, Bucky’s expression is hard to discern. Once the moment’s passed, his eyes glance over to the saloon doors, and he shakes his head. “Fuckin’ city slickers,” he says. He regards Steve, and a playful grin spreads across his face. “I suppose I should mind my tongue considering—“ He barks out a laugh. “Brooklyn, huh? Wouldn’t have pegged ya for it.”

Steve just slides his empty glass across the counter and smiles back.

\- - -

Before he knows it, the first signs of spring begin to peek through the frost. Steve waits for the inevitable question of his departure with a knot in his stomach he can’t quite explain. It grows with each passing day, yet Bucky doesn’t ask.

Then, one day, when the ground is slick with mud, Bucky turns to him and says, “I’ve been thinkin’ of buildin’ a house for myself.” The comment catches him off-guard. Since he’s known Bucky—which admittedly isn’t long—he hasn’t heard him make a single comment on his living arrangement, though Steve knows he’s been staying at the inn.

“Are you?” Steve asks.

“Been thinkin’,” Bucky repeats.

“What changed?”

“Don’t know. Suppose I’ve been here long enough. Never figured myself the type to settle, but it’s been nearly ten years.” He hesitates a moment before adding, “It’s mighty hard work—ya know.”

Steve stands still, and his heart beats hard against his chest. “I’ve heard.”

Bucky stills as well, and when his gaze meets Steve’s, Steve feels an odd sense of calm. “If it ain’t too much trouble, a helping hand would soothe the mind.”

As the question hovers between them, the knot in Steve’s stomach begins to loosen. “Okay,” is all he manages to get out, but Bucky smiles as he reaches out. When his hand touches Steve’s shoulder, Steve finds himself rooted to the spot. Bucky squeezes lightly.

His touch lingers even after he’s dropped his hand, and Steve wonders why he feels as if the breath has been wrung out of him.

\- - -

Steve sets down the hammer and rubs at the bridge of his nose. A pulsing heat creeps up his neck into the back of his head, and he groans, already dreading the inevitable headache that awaits him.

“Jesus—I’ve seen folk high off of laudanum with more wits about them than ya,” Bucky says.

“Haven’t been sleeping,” Steve grumbles. If he’s honest, dreams have eluded him for years. He’s never been able to remember more than a few flashes—the smell of leather or a streak of blue. He can’t recall the last time he stayed in one place for this long, so he chalks it up to restlessness—though it doesn’t feel quite right.

Steve reaches for the hammer again, but Bucky pulls it from his reach. “Mind if we step down? I could use a rest.” The lie could not be more obvious, but Steve relents, still tender from the noise involved in their work and eager for an excuse to quit. They step down the ladder to the ground, and Steve fishes a hand-rolled cigarette out from the case in his duster jacket’s front pocket, followed by a box of matches.

The house is starting to come together—Steve thinks as he glances up at it. It’s more than a frame now, and the first floor is nearly finished, supported by locust posts. He dusts his hands on his pants, distracted as the cigarette dangles from his mouth, and Bucky swipes it. His eyes shimmer—sharp and playful—as he takes a hit from it. He hands it back, grinning as he does.

“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Steve asks.

Before Bucky can say anything, however, a figure approaches and stops in front of the house. He glances from Bucky to Steve, and as Steve looks over, he feels the air knocked out of him. Steve immediately recognizes the greasy black hair and self-satisfied smirk, and though his mustache has begun to speckle with gray from time, he looks chillingly similar.

“This the house ya were mentionin’?” he asks Bucky.

“Same one,” Bucky says.

His eyes move over to Steve, and he hesitates, a look of near-recognition flickering across his face. “Have I seen you before?” he asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t think so,” he quickly says before Bucky can interject. But Bucky’s brow furrows and he opens his mouth. Steve pretends to fumble his cigarette and moves forward to pick it up, stepping hard on the front of Bucky’s boot as he does. “Shit. Sorry, Buck,” he says, keeping his tone steady.

“Ain’t no problem,” Bucky says, and though his expression doesn’t shift, Steve can tell he’s picked up on Steve’s hint, as heavy-handed as it was.

When Steve looks back across him at the interloper, the man glances between them, and when he gets to Steve’s face, he hesitates again. “I’m sure of it. No matter. It’ll come to me,” he says. With a final look, he walks off.

Bucky waits until he’s out of earshot before turning to Steve. “Ya know him?”

“Crossbones Rumlow—yeah, I ran into him and his partner, Pierce, back in Tombstone. We didn’t end on the best of terms.”

“Ah, hell, Steve, what didya do?” Bucky asks and crosses his arms across his chest.

“He ain’t here with his partner for a reason.” Steve pulls off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. “When did he come into town?”

“He dropped by the saloon last night. I reckon he’s only in town for a couple o’ nights. Said a word ‘bout passin’ through.”

“Under the circumstances, I don’t think it wise I spend much time where he might see me.” The thought that he might not spend time around the saloon or even building the house leaves him hollow. He supposes it has to do with the fact that he has hardly spent a day indoors in years, though—he has to admit—doesn’t seem quite like the start and end of it.

“Might be best,” Bucky says, and although it disappears from one second to the next, Steve sees a look of disappointment flash across his face.

\- - -

“Steve fuckin’ Rogers!” Brock’s voice breaks through the fog of his dreams. Within them, Steve looks around for the source of the sound but finds none. “Are you gonna show your cunt face, or are you too much of a coward?”

The follow up is enough to jar him awake, and Steve sits up and reaches for his pistol by his bedside.

As much as he hates to admit it, he knew the confrontation was inevitable once Brock decided to stay in town an extra few days to avoid the worst of mud season. Still, he hates to think how much of town is hearing this.

Steve sticks his head out the window and hardly has time to duck before a shot rings out. It narrowly misses him, and Steve grits his teeth as he lifts his head up again. There is commotion in surrounding rooms—muffled voices and, somewhere further off, a baby crying.

He makes quick work of it and closes one eye as he takes aim, but Brock is nothing but a shadow against the night sky, and Steve’s shot misses him as well, creating a small splash in the mud. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. He knows it will take too long to walk downstairs, so he takes in a deep breath and jumps forward.

Despite the broken glass, he grabs onto the ledge of the window as he swings his body out of the frame, and then he drops.

The fall from the second floor isn’t as bad as he anticipates. Though the moonlit world is a blur around him, he hears the sound of Brock’s gun firing and braces himself. Although it doesn’t hit him, the bullet whizzes past his arm with enough speed that he can feel it, mere centimeters from him.

He tucks his legs slightly and braces himself just before he lands. His legs absorb the majority of the impact, but the bounce of it is enough to make his pistol slip from where it’s tucked beneath his arms onto the dirt—thankfully a drier patch of land than most. In front of him, Brock is reloading his double-barreled shotgun, but he growls, near feral, when he sees Steve.

“Sayin’ you don’t know who I am. You ‘fraid of what the truth might entail?” Steve had mostly been hoping to avoid a gunfight and bloodshed, but he knows Brock’s question is rhetorical.

Brock steps forward, and Steve barely has time to put his arms in front of his face before Brock kicks out. His elbows hit his chest, and the impact of his boot is enough to leave him coughing and breathless. Steve loses balance and falls into the mud, but the click of the reloaded shotgun spurs him back into motion.

He slides forward, grabbing his pistol and aiming a shot at Brock. It grazes his ear, blood gushing from it, and Brock hisses. “Son o’ a fuckin’ bitch.” Steve slips in the slick of the mud as he stands and teeters to his feet.

Steve lifts his pistol again just as the front door to the inn slams opens, and Bucky steps out, barely visible in the shadows, rifle in hand. For a split second, both he and Brock glance over. For a moment, all he can see if Bucky, and Steve’s attention wavers.

And then a shot rings out.

Bucky flies backward and falls against the ground, a pool of blood immediately seeping out around him, black in the moonlight.

A ringing sound fills Steve’s ears as he lifts his pistol again and takes aim, fear clutching ice-cold at his chest. But the bullet that hits Brock between the eyes is not his own. He turns, pistol still at the ready. From the distance, he sees two men on horses, riding forward, guns already lowered.

The lowered guns aren’t enough to go off of to guarantee his safety, but he can wait no longer. Steve rushes forward to Bucky. Right below where his left arm meets his shoulder, beneath the gore, is a gaping wound thorough which Steve can see bone protruding.

“Fuck,” he says. It strikes him for the first time since he woke up that he has no jacket on, nothing to press to the wound to stop the bleeding—though he’s unsure if touching it would make it better or worse. He stares, his heart pounding in his ears and his stomach churning. And for the first time in a long time, he feels helpless.

And then Bucky moves, and he groans, though his eyes stay shut.

“Did ya kill ‘im?” he asks, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Steve knows there’s no time to explain, so he just says, “He’s cold as a wagon tire.”

At the sound of hooves behind him, he turns, pistol drawn, but the two men just walk forward past him to Bucky and crouch down. “Get the Doc,” one of them—a tall Black man with a set of pistols tucked by his waist—says to the other.

The other—broad-shouldered and dressed largely in black with the notable exception of his chaps—nods brusquely and turns to leave.

The first pulls off his coat as he bends down and wraps it around Bucky’s wound as gently as he can. Bucky stirs from his sleep and cries out in pain, and the man lifts his arms. “Shit. You know what to do?”

Steve shakes his head, and he takes a deep breath. The whole world feels unsteady beneath his feet, and his head spins. “No, but I think we ought to press down on it.” He’s seen doctors do it before. But when he reaches out and pushes, though he’s never found himself squeamish before, the squelching sound nearly makes him retch.

Bucky’s out cold now and doesn’t stir, which does nothing to ease the fear swallowing him whole. Before it can, however, he hears footsteps behind him and turns to see two figures approaching them.

“Move outta the way,” the doctor, a man named Stephen, says to him, and Steve stands up as the doctor bends down and places a bag next to him. He checks Bucky’s pulse before peeling the jacket back. He then reaches in the bag, pulls out a tourniquet, and places it around Bucky’s arm.

The look on his face reveals nothing about the graveness of the wound, and Steve’s attention draws away from it to the blood surrounding Bucky. It’s sure to stain the wood in front of the inn—he thinks. He can’t recall the last time he’s seen this much blood from something living.

The thought makes him pale, and perhaps others notice because the man with the pistols—Steve wonders if he’s the one who fired the shot—looks over at him. He appears as though he’s going to speak, but before he can, the doctor does.

“We need to move him.”

“Won’t that make it worse?” the broad-shouldered man asks.

“There’s no joy in me tellin’ you that he’s in grave condition. I’ll need to operate, and I can’t very well do that here.” He regards the three of them and frowns, and Steve swallows thickly, the fog around him enveloping him further.

“Get dressed and meet us at the Doc’s house,” the man with the pistols says. Steve opens his mouth to protest, but the man must anticipate it because he shakes his head and speaks first. “You ain’t gonna be much use to him frozen.”

Only at those words does Steve realize that he’s been standing in his union suit. For the first time since he woke, Steve looks down and feels the bone-deep chill in him. The spring morning is far from warm, and the cotton sticks to him where it’s slick with mud. Still, the thought of leaving Bucky fills him with dread.

“Should things take a turn for the worse…” Steve doesn’t allow himself to finish that thought.

“He ain’t gonna die if I can help it,” the doctor says, meeting Steve’s eyes. His gaze is steady and oddly reassuring. Steve nods and lets out a shaky breath.

“You know where the Doc lives?” the man with the pistols asks. Steve nods. He takes one last look at Bucky and heads back indoors, ignoring the looks of curious townsfolk who have stepped out to see what the commotion is about.

Steve moves rhythmically to his room and cleans himself with a wet rag, trying to ignore the faint buzzing in his ears. His limbs feel heavy, and he can feel the heaviness from the lack of sleep sticking to him like heat in mid-summer.

By the time he finishes, he still has several patches of dirt caked onto him, and he’s certain his hair is a wreck—though he’s never given much mind to it. He’s looked worse for wear during his travels. Frazzled and frantic, Steve dresses quickly and makes his way back outside.

A wave of nausea washes over him upon seeing the dark stain of the blood in front of the inn, but he keeps walking until he sees one of the two men from earlier—the shorter, broad-shouldered one—standing outside of the doctor’s house. When Steve steps forward towards the door, he shakes his head.

“Sam’s in there with him. Doc said amputation was Bucky’s best bet.”

Steve stops in his tracks, and his arm falls limply to his side. “He gonna make it?”

“I ain't been privy to that kind of information, but I reckon he will. He’s one tough son of a bitch.” It takes Steve a moment to realize that the man is holding Sam’s coat, stained in blood. Steve glances at the coat, and when he looks back up, the man is staring at him. “You look a bit green about the gills. You ain’t gonna be ill, will ya?”

Steve shakes his head and crosses his arms across his chest. He isn’t in much of a talking mood, and while he knows he’d normally push through for the sake of manners, he can’t quite find it in himself. Judging by his expression, the man doesn’t take any offense to it.

Before long, the sun begins to rise, and, with it, people start to leave their houses. He catches two friends lost in conversation as they make their way into a shop, and a pang of jealousy runs through him at the thought of normalcy. It doesn’t have time to linger, however, before the door opens and Sam walks out, eyes sunken and shirt stained with blood.

“He’s out cold,” he says and motions them both forward. Steve hardly stops himself from pushing past them all into the doctor’s house, and when he makes it inside, his head starts to swim all over again.

Bucky looks oddly small and pale against the bed, and Steve bends down next to him as his eyes fall to the bandage around his shoulder where his left arm once was. “How is he?” Steve asks the doctor, though his eyes stay fixed on Bucky.

“He’s poorly.” Gathering that his words are far from reassuring, the doctor adjusts himself and tries again. “Can’t quite say yet, but the fact that he’s made it this far—” Steve looks up just as Stephen cuts off and frowns. “A lot of men wouldn’t be so fortunate in his position. It’s a good sign.”

It can hardly be considered fortunate, Steve thinks, but he bites his tongue. Behind him, he can hear Sam and his friend whispering, but before he can try to listen closer, the door slams open, and Natasha walks in.

“Where is he?” Steve has never seen Natasha with a hair out of place, but now she looks like Medusa—hair strewn and face wild.

“You’re gonna wake him, and right now he needs to rest,” Stephen says, his voice a hushed whisper. He glances anxiously at Bucky as if expecting him to stir, and Steve can’t decide if it’s good or bad that he doesn’t.

Natasha’s eyes fall to the bandages around Bucky’s left shoulder, and her face blanches. “Jesus.” She takes a careful step forward, and the gravity of the situation seems to hit her as she crouches down next to Steve. Out of the corner of his eyes, Steve watches as Natasha’s jaw clenches, and even though nothing about her reveals it—he can sense that whatever she’s mustered to hold herself together is quickly unraveling.

“This place is too damn crowded,” Stephen says. “Give the damn boy some room to breathe.”

Sam and the other man step towards the door, and Steve stands as well, deciding that some cold air will do him well. They make their way back outside, and Steve shoves his hands in his pockets at his lets out a shaky breath.

Silence lingers between them for a moment before the broad-shouldered man turns to him and says, “You must be Steve Rogers.” Steve feels a flash of annoyance, though he’s come used to hearing the comment.

“The gunslinger. Sure.”

“The gunslinger. You hear that, Wilson?” The man shakes his head and clicks his tongue.

“Sure do. Mighty presumptuous if you ask me.” _Wilson_ —it feels faintly familiar to Steve, though he can’t quite place it. “I ain’t heard nothing about that,” he continues, addressing Steve. “Barnes talks about you.”

“Clint Barton,” the first man says.

“Sam Wilson,” the other man says.

Suddenly, it clicks. “You two are the ranchers few miles out of town. Bucky’s mentioned you.”

“Mentioned us,” Sam says. “Pretty sure we’ve heard everything Barnes knows ‘bout you, and he just mentions us.” The jesting annoyance in Sam’s voice quickly slips as the reality of the situation hits them again.

“He doesn’t like talking about his life much. Though I suppose I could’ve asked more.” Steve frowns and corrects himself. “Will ask more.” He knows if he stops believing it, even for a second, he’ll fall apart.

They stand for a moment longer before the door opens again and Natasha steps out. “I had to find out from the fuckin’ innkeeper,” she hisses, looking between the three of them. “Came down, saw the bar was empty, and when I went to the inn to check on ‘im—" She cuts herself off and presses her lips together in a thin, angry line, and Steve feels the ball of guilt in his stomach tighten.

Clint places his hand on Natasha’s shoulder and squeezes. “He’ll be alright.” Her eyes meet Clint’s, and without speaking, words pass between them. She nods stiffly and relaxes her shoulders as Clint’s hand drops.

Before the silence settles over them, Steve begins to move back towards the doctor’s house. “I might step in and check to see how he is.”

Stephen is finishing putting away his equipment when Steve enters. He doesn’t look up, though Steve is certain that he must have heard him enter. Silently, he crosses the room to the bed. Only when he kneels does Stephen speak.

“Take the chair from the table. No need to do that.”

Barely a minute has passed when the door opens again. Steve doesn’t need to look to tell that it is Natasha. When he stands up, she speaks. "Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll need to leave in a moment.” She lets out a shaky breath and reaches out, lightly stroking Bucky’s cheek with the back of her hand.

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and he jerks upward—though the movement is cut short as he lets out a grunt of pain. Steve startles, and Natasha gasps as she pulls her hand back.

“Buck—shit—you need to lay down. You lost a lotta blood and—“ Before Steve can continue, Bucky’s eyes fall to his left side, and he stares blankly at the fabric where his arm used to be.

“Well, at least it ain’t my pouring hand,” he says, and then he’s out again, limp against the bed.

The moment stills between them, the sound of Bucky’s voice echoing in Steve’s ears. “Stubborn bastard,” Natasha says, and Steve detects relief in her tone. She reaches forward, carefully adjusting him to a more comfortable position.

\- - -

Bucky doesn’t wake again for four more days. The first night, he begins to shake, and his face turns red as the fever hits his body. Stephen tells him not to worry, but Steve can see the concern flicker behind his eyes. Despite Stephen’s protests, Steve spends the night with him and falls asleep in his chair.

By the end of the third day, his fever breaks. “If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he’s over the worst of it,” Stephen says, and Steve feels his entire body go limp. A heavy blanket of exhaustion wraps around him, and, for the first time since he was woken up by Brock, Steve is able to sleep dreamlessly.

He wakes up late in the morning, and when he sees Natasha, he knows from her smile that Bucky has woken up. With each step he moves quicker until he’s all but running, and when he gets to the house, Stephen is stepping out.

“I just gave him some laudanum, so he’s likely not to be fully present. Still, he’ll be happy to see you,” Stephen murmurs, and Steve’s eyes move from the bags under Stephen’s eyes to the way his jacket is slightly askew.

“Would it be helpful to move him to the inn?” Steve hesitates before adding, “I’ve been helping Bucky build his house, and since—” Steve sucks in some breath between his teeth and clears his throat, not quite sure how to finish the sentence, so he starts again. “I’ve had time on my hands if you need someone to help care for him until he’s on his feet.”

“He’ll have to heal slightly more before we can move him, but yes, that would be helpful. Have a good day.” His face betrays no emotion as he tilts his hat, turns on his heels, and walks into town.

Steve’s hand hovers on the handle to the doctor’s house. His chest tightens, and he tries his best to breathe evenly. The inside of the room seems oddly quiet, and Steve stands in the threshold for a second, his heart beating loud enough that he can hear it as if it’s between his ears.

“Nat?” Bucky asks, though he remains still.

Steve swallows and closes the door behind him as he crosses the room to Bucky’s bed. “’Fraid it’s me.”

Bucky looks at him with a glassy, vacant expression, no doubt from the laudanum. Beneath the delirium, something flickers in his eyes, and when his mouth curls into a smile, Steve feels the weight on his chest lessen. “Hey, ain’t ya that famous gunslinger?” Bucky jokes. He laughs, amused with himself, but the sound quickly morphs into a cough, and the smile disappears as he blanches.

The weight settles again on Steve’s chest, and he finds that oddly he has to wring his hands to stop from reaching out—though he’s not quite sure where the impulse comes from. “How you feeling, Buck?”

“Like shit,” Bucky says, and his eyes glaze over again as he settles into the bed, the drug-induced haze kicking in once more.

“You ain’t really here, are you?” Steve asks him, and Bucky titters.

“I’m somewhere else,” Bucky agrees. Steve grabs a chair, and they sit in silence for a minute. Then, Bucky turns as best as he can to face him and winces from the pain. “Steve?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t ya leave?”

“Well, you just about died. I thought it might be rude.” He tries to frame it like a joke, though his stomach twists and knots, but Bucky just shakes his head, his lip jutting out as he tries to concentrate past the pain and the delirium.

“No, why haven’t ya ever left? It’s been over half a year.” Steve feels the ground drop out beneath him, and it must be written on his face because the crease between Bucky’s eyes deepens. “I don’t mean it the way yer takin’ it.”

The words make Steve’s mouth go dry, and he swallows thickly as he asks, his voice barely louder than whisper, “How do you mean it?”

Bucky blinks up at him behind long lashes. His eyes clear, and there’s a brief moment of lucidity. Although he can’t quite read it, something about the look, makes his stomach go cold and knocks the breath out of him. Steve sits still, terrified and exposed, though he’s not quite sure how.

And then it’s gone, and a look of confusion overtakes Bucky’s face. “How do I mean what?”

Some things, Steve assumes, are better left untouched. He takes a deep breath and focuses on the way the cold air fills his lungs. “Never mind,” he says, and he sits with Bucky until he falls asleep.

\- - -

Bucky’s fever spikes again for a week once he moves back into the inn, and Steve only leaves his side to wring out the cloth he’s using to cool Bucky’s forehead. Sam, Natasha, and Clint come at various times, and once Bucky’s fever breaks, they convince Steve to step outside and take in some fresh air.

Soon enough, they settle into a routine. It’s comfortable, but Steve can sense there are things Bucky holds back. Occasionally, he wakes up to the sound of labored breathing and grunts of pain. No matter how long the fits last, Bucky never wakes Steve, so Steve pretends he’s sleeping, though he frequently watches Bucky until he falls back asleep. Although he’s certain that Bucky catches him once or twice, he never says anything, and the following morning, neither brings it up.

Bucky adapts quickly. He knows his limitations, but he finds ways to adjust, and he’s a quick learner. “Thanks for not trying to insist I need help when I don’t,” Bucky says to him one day, and Steve shrugs.

“I trust you’ll ask if you need it. You’re plenty capable.”

When Bucky goes back to work, Steve quietly continues working on Bucky’s house. He finds the physicality of it distracting. It’s a way to keep his drifting thoughts in check—each stray thought is his reminder that he isn’t putting enough of himself into it. He channels himself into each plank of wood until sweat drips from his brows, and his muscles ache. Until he feels if he pushes any further, he’ll come undone.

Still, his mind wanders.

“This is what ya’ve been doin’ during the day?” Steve jumps and looks down to see Bucky staring up at him, a curious frown on his lips.

“I was restless,” Steve says, and it isn’t a lie, though it doesn’t feel honest either.

Bucky must pick up on something because he tilts his head to the right and presses his lips together as he stares at Steve, contemplative. “Something tells me there’s no use tryin’ to pull the truth out of ya.”

“I was telling the truth.” Bucky’s lips quirk upward, and he gives Steve a thoroughly unconvinced, if not slightly bemused look.

“The full truth.” Bucky regards him for a moment longer, but before the defensive complaint slips from Steve’s lips, he motions for Steve to come down.

Steve takes Bucky’s sudden disinterest or change of spirit as a win and swings himself over the second story ledge. The momentary distraction, however, is enough to divert his attention from his landing, and Steve braces a second too late. His knees bend as he lands, but his balance slips, and he slides forward.

Steve stands back up, feet sliding in the slick of the mud as he tries to steady himself. When he finally looks up to see Bucky, Bucky is frozen, a fleeting look of recognition across his face.

“What?” Steve asks, wiping his knees in an attempt to knock the mud off of them.

Bucky blinks twice, and the expression disappears behind a composed smile once more. “Hmm?”

His voice is convincingly oblivious, and Steve hesitates before trusting his gut and answering, “There was something in your face. You — Well, I don’t know what it was, but you can’t tell me there wasn’t.”

Bucky’s mouth twists. Although he looks visibly agitated, when Steve doesn’t drop his gaze, Bucky concedes. “Ya know how I’ve been havin’ some trouble rememberin’ the details from that night when I got shot? Well, the way ya landed just there felt familiar. That’s all.” Bucky sounds persuasive, but his eyes look just past Steve in a way that makes his stomach knot.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how to be any clearer.” His eyes darken, and Steve can feel Bucky slipping away, closing off.

“I mean, what about it made you remember?” He reaches out his arm and squeezes Bucky’s right shoulder. Bucky’s eyes meet his, and Steve’s mind wanders, just for a moment—just long enough to recall his dream. _The smell of leather or a streak of blue_. The air knocks out of him, and his hand falters and slips.

“Ya can’t ask me for my full truth when ya won’t give me yours,” Bucky mumbles.

“If you tell me yours, I’ll confide in you as well.” The answer slips past his lips. Each instant sends him falling into the next, unable to stop unraveling whatever is transpiring between them.

And then Bucky’s eyes soften, and his shoulders drop, and he’s there—no barriers left. “Ya were on the ground, drenched in mud, pointin’ your pistol right at Brock, and then ya heard the door. And when ya looked at me, it wasn’t like ya were searchin’ for a sound. Ya looked at me. Ya saw _me_. And it was as if, for a moment, ya forgot—” Bucky pauses, as if expecting Steve to interrupt or disagree. When Steve doesn’t, Bucky’s frown deepens, and he gathers himself before continuing. “As if ya forgot what ya were there for or that there was even a pistol in yer hands.”

Steve’s heart pounds against his chest, and he nods, hypnotized by the rhythm between them, the steady back and forth that feels as if it’s propelling him forward towards something which he hasn’t quite been able to name. He’s not entirely sure of what he’s agreeing to, but he trusts his instinct once more. “I’ve been working like this because if I pause even just to drink water, I won’t be able to stop myself from thinking about—"

“Everything alright?” Both he and Bucky jump at Sam’s voice, and they shift their attention to where Sam sits on his horse, several paces away.

Bucky glances at him, and their eyes meet, but the rhythm has been broken, and the moment is gone. It’s not Bucky whose barriers go back up; it’s his. But Steve can’t understand it, let alone stop it. Something important he can’t quite name slips just out of his grasp, and the lump in his throat returns.

“I promise you I don’t need saving most times, Sam,” Steve jibes, and he puts his attention back into getting the mud off his pants. From the way Sam laughs, Steve knows that he’s shaken any lingering suspicions.

When Steve finally dares to look up at Bucky, he is staring vacantly at the ground, and Steve can’t help but feel like he’s let something bigger than himself go. With Sam here, it’s too late to question his decision. He moves his attention away from Bucky and slips an easy smile onto his face as he falls back into conversation with Sam.

\- - -

Steve is grateful that he and Bucky no longer share a room. Still, he knows that Bucky will knock on his door come morning, so he leaves just before the crack of dawn to the stables and rides his horse out past town.

He hasn’t had much of a chance to do so since mud season. Other than a few treks with Bucky, there haven’t been many reasons to leave town. The ground has dried enough that he can speed his horse up to a gallop, and he steadies his balance.

When the wind starts to hit his face, he feels a tickle of something he hasn’t felt since he first settled in town, just shy of a year ago. The sky looks endless around him—open like it might swallow him whole. Steve lets out a whoop and breathes in, and for the first time in months, the air doesn’t stop filling his lungs halfway through. Instead, he keeps breathing in until he can no longer bear the ache in his chest, and the air knocks out of him in one loud _whoosh_. When his eyes start burning, Steve can’t place whether it’s from the wind or something else, akin to relief, and he’s not sure he wants to.

On his way back into town, he passes by Bucky’s house, just as he left it yesterday. For the first time, the thought of leaving town and moving forward feels concrete.

\- - -

It becomes easier to avoid Bucky with time. He alternates his routes and learns to stagger when he gets home and when he leaves.

One morning, he wakes up too late. It’s a narrow margin but a meaningful one. Steve has finished getting dressed and is readying himself to leave when there’s a knock at the door. He stills, rooted to the spot.

“Steve, ya in there?” Steve clasps his hand over his mouth and breathes shallowly, as if his exhale might give him away. The stillness of the room seems to carry outside, and though he doesn’t hear it, Steve has nearly convinced himself that Bucky has left when Bucky speaks again.

“I don’t know why, but I just thought maybe I hadn’t missed ya today. Maybe ya hadn’t managed to slip past ‘n’…” Bucky sighs loudly through the door. “If yer there, can you open up?”

The words make his chest ache, but he still doesn’t move. He’s never considered himself one to cower, so Steve tells himself it’s something else, though he can’t quite shake the particular way he feels. “Well, I guess never mind.” With that, he listens to Bucky walk away, each click of his boots signifying a step that puts more distance between Steve and any uncovered truths. Disappointment curdles in his stomach, and he’s left with a sour taste he can’t quite shake.

His body feels heavy, and his thoughts shatter and scatter until Steve is left numb and overwhelmed. It takes him a few moments to gather himself, and when he does, he breathes in and out, counting in his head until his body relaxes, and he can move once more.

Steve has been spending more time at Clint and Sam’s ranch in the last few months. Sam’s presence in particular has kept him tethered in a way he hasn’t expected. Occasionally, he catches them at their home. Sam brews them coffee, and they sit in a comfortable silence until one or the other remembers something to say. And on it goes until it repeats. More typically, however, Steve finds them working and joins in tasks where more force is needed than skill—leveling the ground or repairing the ditches.

In those moments, the town far away enough that it isn’t even a speck on the horizon, Steve’s mind stills. He can focus on the present, and every wandering thought dissipates.

He gets on his horse now, eager to clear his mind, and gallops until Clint and Sam’s house comes into view. When he finally slows, his face throbs, stinging from the sharp cold of the wind. Steve presses the back of one hand to his cheek and scowls at how cold it is to the touch.

Neither Clint nor Sam is home, which is no surprise. Spring has slowly begun to melt into summer, which means they’re busier than they have been. Today, however, Steve finds Sam by the fence, repairing a few holes.

“Need a hand?” He crouches beside him and offers a tense smile when Sam turns to look at him.

“Wouldn’t mind one,” Sam says. “I can show you how.”

They work for a while, neither saying much. It’s an easy enough task for Steve to get the hang of it quickly, and he loses himself in its repetitiveness. He works until his throat is dry and his shoulders are sore, and when he finally lifts his head up, he’s surprised to see that it’s later in the day than he expected. The sun will be setting in the next few hours, so Steve straightens his back and dusts off his pants.

“Want to eat?” Sam asks, and Steve nods his head. “Ain’t gonna be nothing fancy, so don’t go expecting much.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Sam makes camp bread and finishes a stew Clint had started to prepare. Clint eats fast, eager to get everything done before the sun sets, and soon only Steve and Sam are left, finishing their meals.

“You have to talk, talk.” Sam’s perceptive, Steve’s noticed, and it doesn’t surprise him that he can tell something is weighing on Steve’s mind.

Steve takes a deep breath and then speaks. “I’ve been thinking of leaving town.” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, but he says nothing, so Steve continues. “Not immediately, course. I reckon it’ll be another month or two. Was planning on helping Bucky finish his house, but after that, I don’t see much reason to stay. I’ve had to pull in my horns lately too.”

Sam nods his head and sighs. “Bucky know?”

The question catches Steve off-guard, and despite his better judgment, he feels himself bristle. “Why d’you ask?”

“You gonna take French leave?”

“Hell, Sam. Of course, I’ll tell him before I go. Just haven’t yet. Now why d’you ask?”

Sam shrugs. “No particular reason—I suppose.” He finishes the last piece of bread and stands up. “Bucky tells me you’ve been avoiding him.” The words make him run cold, and Steve stands up as well, but before he has time to announce that he intends on leaving, Sam quickly adds, “Now, trust me. I don’t plan on interfering with whatever’s going on, but what with you two at odds and you leaving town, I wanted to make sure the two weren’t related.”

Despite the fact that his clothes are stuck to him from a long day’s work, Steve feels suddenly exposed. But when he opens his mouth, his mind is racing faster than he can put together thoughts. “They’re not,” he grumbles, his voice terser than he intends on it being.

Steve finds it unclear whether Sam is convinced, but before he can discern one way or another, the moment passes. “I gotta head back,” Sam says, nodding his head towards the pastures.

“Thanks for the meal,” Steve says.

“Well, figured the least I can do is feed you considering you helped me with half the fence.” Sam claps a hand on Steve’s back. “It’ll be odd not to see your mug ‘round these parts if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Don’t mind at all. It’ll be strange not seeing you as well.” A sour feeling floods his mouth, but Steve’s smile doesn’t falter. They regard each other for a moment longer before making their way out of the house. He waves at Sam before mounting his horse.

As he rides, Steve focuses his attention on the sky in front of him—orange, with purple hue around the clouds. He’s so focused on avoiding his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice the redheaded woman sitting on her mare near the outskirts of town until he hears a voice.

“Howdy. Mind pointin’ me in the direction of the saloon?”

Steve jerks his head to take a look at her. Her wide-brimmed hat casts a shadow across her face, partially obscuring it from view, but even still, Steve makes out her calm, cautious gaze. Steve clicks his tongue and slows his horse down to a halt.

The saloon means seeing Bucky, and Sam’s question rings in his ears. “Sure can,” he says. After all, if his leaving has nothing to do with Bucky—and Steve tells himself it doesn’t—then there isn’t any reason for Bucky not to know.

“Appreciate it.” She tips her hat at him, and Steve leads the way.

“What brings you into town?” Steve asks. “Heading West?”

“Came from California, actually. I’m just passin’ through.”

“Been a while since I’ve been to California.” She’s easy to talk to, and the conversation gives Steve something to distract himself from the thought of the impending saloon.

She lets out a low hum, seemingly surprised that Steve is familiar. “Whereabouts?”

“San Francisco, a few years back.” A memory flickers through his head, and Steve chuckles and shakes his head. “You could say I had a—uh—disagreement with Denis Kearney that didn’t exactly leave me eager to return.”

“That sonofabitch doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.” The woman spits at the dirt, and Steve laughs, finding himself charmed by her lack of restraint.

“I take it you’re familiar with San Francisco, then.”

“Been there nearly ten years.”

“We must have overlapped, then.”

They make their way to the stables, and Steve hands both their horses off to the stable hand before leading them in the direction of the saloon. The woman looks wide-eyed at the town, and after a minute, she says, “Place sure has changed a lot since I was last here.”

The words take a second to sink in, and by the time they do, they’re at the door of the saloon. “You’ve been here before?” Steve asks, and they step in. His eyes immediately dart over to Bucky, and he braces himself.

But Bucky bursts into a grin. It’s the most relief Steve’s felt in weeks until he shouts from across the room, “Wanda?”

The woman next to him—Wanda, Steve supposes—grins, nearly feral, and does a half-jog across the room, her spurs ringing loud with each heavy step. “James fuckin’ Barnes.” She lets out a hoot just before they meet, and her hands make their way to either side of Bucky’s face, cupping it before she leans in and presses a kiss to his mouth.

As the ground drops beneath him, the truth pries it way out and rears its ugly head, and Steve knows there’s no denying that he’s in love with Bucky. The revelation, so carefully stepped around and pushed back, swallows him whole, and Steve’s hand reaches for a chair as he steadies himself.

And then Wanda steps back, and Steve gathers himself enough to focus in on their words, still raised in volume despite their proximity. “Why the hell didn’t ya tell me you were coming into town?”

“And have you find an excuse not t’be here when I arrive?” Wanda scoffs, and Bucky chuckles as he clasps a hand on her shoulder.

“Well, ya found yer way here. Just as sharp of a sense of direction as ever—I see.”

“Actually, Rogers over there showed me on over. You know you got a famous gunslinger in town?” Somewhere behind everything else swirling in his chest, Steve is aware that Wanda recognized him. He hardly has time to push a smile back on his face before Wanda glances over and winks.

“Think I heard somethin’ ‘bout that,” Bucky says.

Then, his eyes are on Steve, and Steve can feel himself coming undone again. The chatter of the other customers, the piano, even Wanda all fade away as Bucky’s eyes linger on his, distant as the first day Steve walked into the saloon. Steve’s fingers curl around the back of the chair, as he tries to plead wordlessly for Bucky to see him like he saw him a few weeks ago when Sam interrupted.

But Bucky looks away. He shepherds Wanda to the bar and steps around to the other side as he pours them each a drink.

Once he feels confident that his knees won’t buckle beneath him, Steve unfurls his fingers from around the chair and walks out.

\- - -

Three weeks go by, and Steve begins to think that Wanda’s assessment that she’s _passing through_ might not be entirely true.

Although there’s little in Bucky’s outward appearance to suggest a shift, something about the way he speaks to Steve feels cold. No one remarks on it, and he has almost convinced he’s imagined it when he catches Natasha looking curiously between the two of them one afternoon.

It doesn’t help that the truth looms over him. Now that he’s named it, it clings onto him with a vice-like grip, tighter with each passing day. Steve can hardly stand the way Bucky’s eyes pass over him when they talk or the fact that he never acknowledges Steve until the conversation turns in a way that he has to.

Even more infuriating is Bucky’s ability to make sure that they are never left alone in a room. The harder Steve tries to approach him, the more elusive Bucky comes. So, one night, Steve waits until Bucky has come back from the saloon and knocks on the door to his room. Faintly, Steve hears the sound of footsteps.

Then, Bucky opens the door, and he stops, his hand slipping from the handle. “Steve?” Bucky’s lips part, and he lets out a breathless _oh_. His guard down, he looks at Steve, raw and petrified. For the first time, Steve notices the bags under Bucky’s eyes, and he reaches out a hand until it grazes against Bucky’s. Bucky’s Adam’s bobs as he swallows thickly, and Steve’s eyes fall, fixed to it, as he wonders how it would feel beneath his lips.

The sound of springs creaking jars them both out of it, and Bucky jerks away his hand and turns his head. Wanda comes into view behind him, sprawled out on Bucky’s bed under the covers, fast asleep.

“Oh, I see,” Steve warbles—his voice hoarse.

Bucky looks back and starts shaking his head, but Steve can feel his guards slipping. He turns on his heel and walks to his room, shutting the door behind him before collapsing against it. He half-expects to hear Bucky follow him and hates the second wave of disappointment he feels when there’s no knock at his door.

Unable to stop himself, he steps forward swings his fist down against the table, pain blossoming as a crack runs through the wood. Steve gasps and curses under his breath. It hurts to tighten and loosen his fist enough to make his eyes water, but he’s broken enough bones to know he’s mostly fine.

\- - -

After that, Steve returns to finish the house. He sets his back into it, wanting to get it done before summer returns full force. Bucky stops by several times, but the conversations fizzle as their eyes dart past each other. Each time he feels as if Bucky is going to say something, the moment passes.

“What happened to yer hand?” Bucky asks, motioning at the bruises around his fingers. Steve flushes, not eager to relive the humiliation from that night and thankful that from this angle, Bucky can’t see his face.

“Nothing. Messed up.”

For a moment, Bucky doesn’t say anything, and though he can’t see him, Steve gets the odd sense that Bucky is debating calling him out on his lie.

Hammering fills the silence between them, and Steve is about to look back to see if Bucky’s left when he speaks again. “Wanda’s leavin’ town soon.”

“Is she?” Steve asks, though he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. All that’s left are the finishing touches—no more than another two to three weeks of work, but with that realization comes a heavy sense of dread.

Bucky shoves a hand in his pocket and chews on the inside of his lip. “It’d mean a lot if ya came.”

Steve stills, and when he looks over, Bucky stares at him with the sort of pleading eyes Steve doesn’t know how to say no to. His shoulders fold as he nods his head. “Give Wanda word I’ll be there.”

“I mean, it’d mean a lot to me.”

Steve knows what Bucky meant, but said aloud, it still makes his chest twinge. Bucky’s face is somehow both inscrutable and open, as if inviting Steve to jump to conclusions. He hates the way it makes his resolution crumple, but he’s powerless to stop it. “I’ll be there,” Steve repeats, his voice softer.

\- - -

Steve makes up an excuse and slips out the back door of the saloon an hour into sitting at the bar with Bucky and Wanda. He can hardly stand to be around the two of them. Every conversation turns into a story of their past, and after the charm of picturing the Bucky from those tales wears off, all he’s left with is the feeling that his presence isn’t exactly necessary—that the conversation will continue with or without him. Natasha, Sam, and Clint drop by as well, and they must feel similarly because before too long they leave, an excuse ready at the tips of their tongues.

The alley behind the saloon is dim and has always smelled off, but the fact that it’s empty is all Steve cares about. He moves in as far as he can go—no more than a few steps—and leans his back against the wall.

A window upstairs in the brothel must be open because Steve can hear moans from some woman—loud, staccato, and most certainly not real. He glances up at the open shutters and snorts as he pulls his cigarette case out of his duster jacket pocket.

The first drag washes over him, and Steve feels his nerves start to steady just as the door opens. Bucky steps outside and lets it close behind him properly before turning to face Steve. They stare at each other a moment.

Then, Steve takes another drag and looks away, trying to quell the building resentment in the pit of his stomach. It takes a concentrated effort not to snap at Bucky and make some comment about how _I thought my absence wouldn’t make a notable difference—you know—considering._

He doesn’t. He tilts his head away from Bucky and lets out a steady stream of smoke, watching as a gust of wind hits him, curving it at a near ninety-degree angle the moment it leaves his lips. “Who’s running the bar if you’re here?” Steve asks.

“Wanda. I trust her to handle herself.”

“I’m sure she can.” Despite meaning it, the words come out with a sharp edge that surprises even Steve. Bucky looks at him, and Steve braces himself for Bucky to object.

But Bucky doesn’t. “Heard yer leavin’ town,” he says instead, lips quirking upward as he gives Steve a look caught between bemused and exasperated.

“Sam tell you that?” Steve clenches his jaw.

“Nah. If he gave ya his word that he wouldn’t tell me, Sam would never do it. He did tell Clint, however, who said somethin’ a few weeks back.”

Steve scoffs. “Wasted no time letting you know.”

“Yer the one who didn’t tell me ya were going to leave.”

The hurt seeps through Bucky’s words, though when Steve looks over, Bucky’s face is hidden behind his hair. Steve sighs and turns his body just slightly so that he’s facing Bucky.

“I should’ve brought it up. I just needed time to figure out what I wanted.”

“And what ya wanted was to get far away from here without me knowin’.” Bucky states it like a fact, not a question, and Steve frowns as he lifts his cigarette up to his lips.

He hasn’t been this physically close to Bucky in months outside of that night in front of Bucky’s room. The memory twists in him, and he breathes in and touches his tongue to the roof of his mouth, cutting through the smoke as it moves down his throat and into his lungs. His chest expands until his lungs burn, and he twists the cigarette between his fingers. It’s enough to install some fleeting sense of calm in him.

“I knew if I told you, I would never would’ve left,” Steve corrects. In front of him, Bucky’s shoulders straighten slightly, and he slowly turns to look at Steve.

“But Clint said when ya finished my house…” He sucks in a breath and lets the sentence linger before adding, “And yer practically done.”

“It ain’t have nothin’ to do with whether or not I finish the house.” There’s more he wants to say, but the words get caught. Then, Bucky’s eyes meet his, and he’s grounded to the spot, certain that the truth is etched on his face, there for anyone to discover.

Bucky wets his lips, and his hand trembles as he speaks. “What were ya going to tell me the other month? That day Sam interrupted.”

Steve has avoided Bucky for precisely this moment, this question, but he refuses to bite his tongue again. “I didn’t know it at the time—suppose I didn’t want to. You were talking, and it was like every word out of your mouth—” Steve cuts himself off and tries again. “You were right. The door opened, and I saw you, and for a second, there wasn’t a gunfight, ‘n’ Brock didn’t exist. It was just you.”

Silence hovers between them, and Bucky says nothing. He stares forward blankly in front of him, past Steve.

“Say something,” Steve begs. But Bucky doesn’t. He turns instead and reaches his hand out. It feels like a gesture to let him down easy, and Steve steps back and bristles, suddenly aware of how he must sound. “Never mind. You don’t need to humor me with some soft sawder. Spare me the lies, Buck.”

Bucky frowns, and his eyes darken. “Ya can call me plenty things, but I ain’t no fuckin’ liar, Steve.” He prods Steve in the shoulder with his index finger, hard enough that it bounces back off of it.

The words wash over him, and Steve stares, suddenly wordless himself. He drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with the heel of his boot. “So, what are you saying?”

“I’m sayin’ that I see ya too. Since ya walked through the damn doors a year ago. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“What about Wanda?”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair as he sighs. “It ain’t what ya’ve been thinkin’. Her husband died. Consumption. That’s why she’s here. She can’t stand to be alone.”

“But she kissed you when she came, and that night—” Steve furrows his brow, trying to piece together what Bucky’s saying. His heart won’t stop pounding against his chest, though he can’t shake the fear that the rug will still be pulled out from under him.

“That’s just how she is. If ya were her friend, she woulda kissed ya too. And ‘bout that night, she drank ‘til she was full as a tick. She wasn’t in a state to spend the night by herself, so I let ‘er sleep in my bed.”

“Why didn’t you say anything until now?”

“Why didn’t ya?” The look in his eyes is reflected right back at him in Bucky’s. Steve’s heart jumps to his throat. There’s no use denying the truth or avoiding it. Steve’s not sure that there ever was.

“‘Cause I was scared I was wrong, and I couldn’t face it if I was. I used to rely on my good judgment, but lately...”

They stare at each other, the truth laid out between them, and then Steve leans forward. His right hand reaches up, cupping Bucky’s face as he presses their lips together. Bucky lets out a muffled sound of surprise, and their noses bump up against each other. Steve's fingers slip to Bucky's neck. He runs his fingers up just slightly into Bucky's hair; it's enough to knock his hat askew.

Steve opens his eyes—though he doesn't entirely remember shutting them—and Bucky's eyes are on him, trusting yet searching. He pulls away, just an inch away from Bucky's face, and asks, "Should I stop?"

"Don't you dare," Bucky whispers. From here, Steve can see how flushed Bucky’s face is, and for a moment he soaks in the sight in front of him—Bucky’s shoulders rising rapidly, dazed and distracted enough that he slips half an inch down against the wall.

Then, Steve closes the gap again, tightening his fingers on the back of Bucky’s neck, eliciting a soft whimper. It's messy and desperate, but Steve can't help but want more. The heat between them feels unyielding—intoxicating even. Bucky's hand falls to Steve's side, and he grips it, catching himself as Steve runs his tongue across Bucky's lower lip, coaxing his mouth open.

Bucky’s nails dig into him, sharp and painful, and Steve tangles his fingers into Bucky's hair before tugging lightly. It’s barely a reprimand, but it’s enough, and Bucky’s fingers loosen, though he continues to stare at Steve hungrily.

The world spins around him, and Steve reaches out with his other hand, pinning it to the wall behind Bucky to steady them both. He feels intoxicated, and each noise out of Bucky's mouth makes his knees nearly buckle beneath him.

Around them, the whole town drops away until it’s just him and Bucky, and Steve wonders how anything ever existed before this.

Then, Bucky rolls his hips forward. It’s unconscious—Steve’s certain of it—but tethers Steve back on Earth, cutting through this haze. Bucky is hard.

Heat rises in Steve’s cheeks until he's sure they're pink and flushed, but Bucky is too far gone to notice. He stares for a second longer, taking in the way Bucky's pupils are blown and his eyes glazed over. Then, Steve drops the hand pressed against the wall and brushes it against Bucky's cock. Even against through the fabric, it feels hot against his hand.

Bucky jerks, teetering off-balance until he catches himself. His breath hitches, and Steve rolls Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth before pulling back just enough to speak. “Can I?”

Bucky tugs his head up and down before letting his head fall backwards. It hits the wall with a soft _thunk_ , though Bucky hardly seems to notice. He eyes flutter shut, and he rolls his hips forward, eager for more contact.

It takes him a moment to get the buttons undone and push past layers, but soon enough, he finds what he’s after. Steve’s fingers close around Bucky’s cock, and he swipes his thumb experimentally over the head. Bucky jerks, and he reaches to the front of Steve’s shirt, his fist tightening around the fabric.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Bucky breathes, and the air that comes out tickles Steve’s cheek.

If this were a different time, Steve thinks he might draw it out. He wants to see how far he can take it before Bucky relents and begs; the thought is dizzying. But now they’re in an alley, and Bucky’s body is far from familiar. Teasing—Steve thinks—can come once he knows how to draw Bucky to the edge without pushing him over.

Now, Steve just wants to feel.

He wraps his hand back around Bucky’s cock and strokes once, earning him another moan. He tries again, twisting his wrist as he does, and marvels at the way Bucky slips further down against the wall.

His lips fall to Bucky’s neck as he sets a rhythm. He starts at his collar and kisses his way up until he finds a spot on Bucky’s neck that makes him whimper. Steve grazes his teeth against it before sucking lightly, and Bucky keens.

Before long, Bucky begins to roll his hips forward, frantically trying to match Steve’s pace, and Steve kisses him hard. When Bucky starts to tremble and sweat drips across Steve’s fingers on Bucky’s nape and down into the collar of his shirt, Steve knows Bucky’s close. He tightens his grip and loosens it before twisting his wrist again and speeding up.

Bucky can hardly hold himself up by the time he comes. Steve shifts his hand down from Bucky’s neck to around his waist and pins him against the wall. He comes with a shout, muffled against Steve’s lips, and Steve works him until Bucky is shaking, raw and oversensitive.

Only then does he pull his hand out, careful not to get anything on Bucky’s clothes. He brings his fingers to his lips and tastes, and Bucky watches him through half-lidded eyes. Bucky tastes hot and bitter. He swirls his tongue around his fingers and pulls them out with a pop.

“You all right?” Bucky’s head falls forward into the crook of Steve’s shoulder, and he nods before taking deep, heaving breaths. They stand there for a minute like that, Steve supporting the majority of Bucky’s weight as he settles back into the present. Now that Bucky has come, he’s aware of his own arousal more than ever, and he positions his hips back slightly.

Nonetheless, Bucky notices. He shifts his weight eventually and stands up straight as his hand falls from Steve’s side. The bulge in Steve’s pants is unmistakable, and Bucky reaches a hand forward. When he starts to drop to his knees, it takes a concentrated amount of effort for Steve to shake his head and put a hand against Bucky’s shoulder to stop him. “Not now.”

“But ya—” Steve presses a finger to Bucky’s lips, and Bucky stills.

“Later. Shouldn’t you be getting back to Wanda before she worries?”

It’s the right decision, but Steve can tell that Bucky hates him for it. His eyes narrow, and he clenches his jaw as he tries to come up with an excuse, but Steve’s stern look dissuades him. At last, his shoulders drop in defeat.

“I suppose I should see to it that she ain’t by herself in there.” Bucky pouts, bordering on petulant, and Steve chuckles.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Buck. You can knock on my door when you get back, and we’ll make up for lost time.”

His words do exactly what Steve hopes they will, and Bucky swallows thickly as his eyes cloud over anew.

\- - -

Steve takes a step back and looks at the house. “We ought to take a look at the inside,” he says, eager to show off his handiwork.

“Steve, I’ve seen it every day this past week. I think I know what it looks like by now.” When Steve scowls, Bucky relents and waves both of his hands—including the prosthetic the doctor made for him—up defensively in front of him. “Alright, but if this is just to impress me, ya should know ya already did that a long while back.”

Steve’s still not used to the compliments. If the past month has taught him anything, it’s that Bucky is brimming with them and always ready to dish them out, if only to see Steve flush. It’s indulgent and over-the-top, but he loves the way Bucky’s lips curl into a self-satisfied grin each time.

They step in and shut the door behind them. The inside of the house still needs to be cleaned up. There’s sawdust to be swept out, and the windows are still covered in fingerprints from when he installed them. But it’s beautiful—at least Steve thinks so. The stairs took longer than he thought to build, but it’s concrete, real, and bigger than himself in a way that makes Steve feel proud.

“So, what do you think?” Steve asks. “I reckon it’ll look better once you move in, but—"

“It’s the best house I’ve laid my eyes on.” Bucky leans in and presses a kiss to Steve’s jaw. “I mean it truly.” The words are enough to make him relax, and Steve nods once before reaching out and running a hand absentmindedly up and down Bucky’s back.

They stand like that, taking in the house in front of them, and—like that—it hits him. They haven’t talked about Steve leaving since Bucky first asked him about it. It’s been present in the unspoken gaps in their conversations and passing glances, but neither has been able to work up the courage to say anything, afraid it’ll make it more concrete.

Until now—that is.

“You know where yer headin’?” Bucky asks, his voice strained.

Steve’s hand drops, and he shakes his head. “Haven’t given it much thought.”

The air between them feels thick in a way that Steve knows has nothing to do with the summer heat. Next to him, Bucky lets out a loud sigh. “I get the impression that this house is larger than I can fill just on my own.”

Steve blinks slowly, trying to ground himself. “Oh? Who are you thinking of asking to live with you?” It’s a stupid question, and he knows it. Still, he can’t quite bring himself to lean into the hope swelling in his chest.

“A long time ago, I asked why ya didn’t like bein’ called a gunslinger. Ya told me what you did was different. It had more t’do with executin’ justice than anything else.” Bucky speaks slowly and carefully, and his eyes don’t waver from Steve’s.

Steve recalls the conversation and nods in agreement. “What does that have to do with your house?”

“There’s just as much a need for justice here as anywhere else.” Despite his even tone, Bucky’s words sound like a plea. “This town could use a sheriff, and somethin’ tells me you’d make a mighty fine one.”

Steve’s ears ring as the words settle. The thought of stillness has always terrified him before, yet now he feels oddly calm, as if he’s known all along that he’s planned on staying, and the only thing he’s been waiting for is for Bucky to ask. Steve lets out a shaky breath until he can push no more air out of his lungs. “You think?”

“I can assure you so. Hooples around town fixin' for some trouble could use a lesson in justice.”

Steve steps forward and wraps a hand around the front of Bucky’s shirt, tugging him forward until their lips meet. The house— _their_ house—falls away until the only thing that’s left is Bucky. When he pulls back, a wide smile spreads across his face.

“I expect the bigger room, or else I’ll be sore-disappointed,” Steve teases.

“Already listin’ demands.” Bucky clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth in mock-disapproval. “But I suppose—if ya ain’t opposed to sharin’, ya can have it.”

“I accept your offer, Mr. Barnes,” Steve says, and he kisses him once more.


End file.
